New Dawn Fades
by coloursflyaway
Summary: Whenever Loki sleeps, he dreams; of Asgard, of his former life, of Thor and it hurts. Hurts until he can't bear it anymore, but there is nothing he can do to stop the dreams… Nothing except to stop sleeping.


**Warning:** Angst, more angst, self harm (not the cutting kind), violence, general madness, death, hallucinations, sleep deprivations, pain, unrequited love, unintentional suicide or something?, more angst and generally a buckload of angst and craziness

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The dreams come whenever he does as much as close his eyes, be it for one minute or twenty and Loki despises them with a passion which makes his chest burn with every breath he takes. For the dreams are _gloriou_s, sweet and bright and sunny in ways he has never known when he was still in Asgard. Asgard, which he will never see again, except for when he is sleeping, walking on the lush meadows and white-dusted roads he will never feel under his feet again. Other nights he spends in the familiar halls of the palace, searching out places only he has ever found, hidden behind pillars and tapestry, peaceful refuges where no one could ever find him. He dreams of his parents, too- or rather, Frigga and Odin, how he has come to call them. Those are the dreams he hates a little less, for there is always a tiny amount of sadness, of anger in them, which makes them less wonderful and more bearable. And yet, he loathes them, for they tell him of a time where he was still their son and neither a traitor, a king nor a Frost Giant.

But most of the time, no, _all of the time_, he dreams of Thor, his stupid, golden, perfect oaf of a brother (for back then, back in Asgard, he still was just that). He's everywhere and manages to get under the trickster's skin like he always has, with a simple gesture, smile or word.

In some nights, he relives their childhood when he was still able to laugh, carefree and young. He dreams about running around the gardens chasing or being chased, about flowers picked and about watching Thor, the mighty God of Thunder train among his warriors; he dreams about being jealous and angry, but most of the time, he dreams about being loved and loving in return. These are the nights which hurt, because they are brothers again, side by side, watching out for each other, taking care.

And then there are other nights, nights which do not hurt, because _hurt_ is a far too gentle word for the burning, throbbing, fierce ache which takes hold of Loki's heart.

Because in these nights, the innocence is drained from his dreams and their brotherly bond twists into something else, something searing, devouring; the kind of love with leaves him breathless and out of control. In these dreams, he feels his brother's warmth heating up his own, cold skin, hands roaming over his trembling body and lips pressed against his own as he arches up, desperate for more. And it is then that he finally has what he has wanted ever since he can remember desiring at all: Not only his brother's company and a place in his shadow, but Thor's heart and soul, mind and body.

Loki gives back just as plenty, letting his dreamt-up brother bury him under a warm, broad body, still pleading for more when they move together as one. The Thor in his dreams complies easily, always does, until he finally spends himself deep inside the trickster's body, pushing Loki over the edge as well. Most of the times, it is that moment when he wakes, but sometimes, when life is either particularly generous or cruel, he is allowed to stay, curled up against his brother's body as they share soft words and kisses.

When he does wake, he doesn't remember, at least not immediately. There is always one blissful second in which he does not recognize this realm for what it is, and in that one moment, everything is fine. However, then his senses set in, always do, one by one until the whole world seems to be crumbling before him, crashing and burning, fading to a mere shadow of itself, replacing the golden, eternal city with the grey cold that is Midgard. And there is nothing left for him, not here, and he cannot bear it. So he lays still, sheets cocooned around him, damp with sweat and wills himself to calm down.

There are nights in which he succeeds, but they are scarce and more often then not he lies shaking until the birds in front of his window start greeting the new day and with that, free him from his confinement. And then, there are nights in which Loki can't help but trail a hand down his body and give his mind another reason to hate himself. Taking his swollen erection into cursed, despised hands, he finishes what the projections of his brother couldn't until his back arches and he soils the sheets further with his release, Thor's name bittersweet on his lips.

Sometimes, when he is still dazed by the afterglow of his climax, he catches himself thinking that maybe, if he had been different, if he had been _better_, that place in Thor's shadow would have been enough. For even if it was a vast and overpowering, standing in his brother's shadow at least meant staying by his side.

But whenever this happens, he forces himself in front of a mirror, ignoring if his legs are still weak, and changes until there are blood-red eyes staring back at him, contrast sharp to his disgusting, blue, scarred skin and the feeling fades. Because no one in their right mind would ever let a monster stand behind Asgard's golden king. As Loki watches his nails work their magic until there are small trails of scarlet all over his flesh, he remembers when he had first discovered that the love he held for his brother surpassed everything which could be considered natural. He cannot quite recall the exact moment, or even the day, but he remembers the aftermath all too clearly: Days spent in his chambers, the doors locked with the most powerful spells he could master, unable to eat or sleep. There had been voices and pleas, most of them coming from Frigga, but even Odin had visited, demanding him to open the doors and stop whatever madness had befallen him. He had blocked all of them out.

Even after the centuries which have passed since then, he can feel the desperation creeping up on him as he remembers how he had waited for his brother's clumsy, fierce words, but they had never come. Later, after he had somehow overcome his paralysis, Frigga had told him that Thor had been out hunting at the time, but the knowledge hadn't helped a bit; for back in his room, curled up in a ball, trying to will himself to die, Loki had learned how to hate himself.  
These are the nights which feel as if someone was ripping the flesh from his bones, piece by piece.

Each night, he breaks, not because he allows it, but because he hasn't got the strength to fight it anymore. And as a seemingly endless row of imagined kisses flash upon his inward eye, he remembers why he hates the dreams so much: Because for a few minutes or hours, they show him a world in which his past and future deeds have no significance, where there is still hope for him, only to take it away from him once more.

And then the day comes where Loki finds that he cannot take it anymore. Nothing has happened and yet he knows in the second he opens his eyes that there is no way he can go on like this and live, for it aches, aches so much that even breathing is barely manageable. And then, soothing like cool water on a burn, a thought appears in his crazed mind, so simple and yet beautiful it makes Loki smile lopsidedly and shake his head in disbelief because he can't understand how it has taken him so long to think of it. He cannot stop the dreams when he sleeps, so instead he will have to stop himself from sleeping.

The day passes in a hurry and Loki barely has the time to just sit down and think for a second, because there is so much to do, so much to prepare and still so little time. He spends long, precious hours searching his books for enchantments and spells, raids the supermarkets of three small towns to stock up on caffeine and even visits a local library just in case that Midgard for once is ahead of Asgardian science.

But in the end, it's worth it, for he has sheets of paper filled with runes to put on one'sforeheadto prevent the eyes from shutting, incantations to stimulate the blood circuit and brain activity and spells to just plainly stop him from sleeping. And so, when night falls, Loki does not retire, instead closes the door to his bedroom, as not to be tempted and perches himself behind his books, perfecting a teleportation spell. It takes hours, spent with runes and words older than he is himself, but in the end it's worth it, for a flick of his wrist and a few syllables all but muttered under his breath and he is in the middle of Cairo or in a café in Paris, watching the sun set over the Eiffel tower. Not in Asgard, though, never, ever in Asgard.

When he finally rises from his seat, limbs and back weary and stiff, the first rays of sun are already reaching over the rooftops, bringing a new dawn with them.

A smile spreads across Loki's face, sincere and faint, for the first night has passed and he hasn't slept a second.  
He stretches, body protesting against his treatment of it and his head swimming slightly with every motion but it doesn't seem to matter at all. It takes four cups of coffee until Loki is able to sort his thoughts again, the liquid bitter and scalding and still a relief, so different from all the sweet and heady drinks Asgard had to offer. With the last cup, he watches the city around him wake, the softness and anonymity of dawn fade gradually with each sound and motion.  
The rest of the morning passes quickly, almost in a rush since everything seems new somehow, untainted and pure and Loki catches himself just staring out in the open, head blissfully empty. In the end, it is even easier than expected to resist the temptation of his bed.  
There had been nights without sleep before for the trickster, when either his studies or the battlefield had prevented it, and although they were unpleasant, they were nothing he could not handle. He spends the rest of the day scheming, planning the attack on several European cities, if more as sport and without any real intent. It has been a long time since his tricks and mischief brought him real joy, satisfaction, and it scares him slightly for without this, he doesn't know who he is and is supposed to be. And even if he is the trickster, is ever fluid and ever changing, reinventing himself completely without shattering himself entirely first is too much even for him.

Hours tick away, some slowly, others in the blink of an eye, and all of a sudden, it has been two day since Loki has last slept and it feels good. More so, even; it feels right, for even if the edges of his thoughts are starting to blur and it is getting harder to concentrate with every passing second, months if not years have passed since has last felt so at ease. Compared to this, the exhaustion seems like a small price to pay. He still thinks of Asgard, thinks of Thor, but it is so much easier to bear now, for that is all it is now, thoughts. Thoughts which hurt and claw at his insides, but thoughts nonetheless which are easily diverted by books or another well-chosen memory of chaos and bloodshed.

And it is delightful not to be plagued by visions of his thrice-damned brother, to finally be free of stormy blue eyes staring down at him, of tanned skin which looks golden in the sunlight, even if it has no right to. It's good not to feel as if Thor owns a part, if not all of him, for once.

He does not leave his apartment for another day before the walls start to feel like they are closing in around him. By now he has stopped counting the hours since he has last slept, his whole concept of time slipping slowly but surely, up to the point where he wonders if his clocks are playing a tick on him. Surely this is not how time passes.

It takes him a moment to remember that inanimate objects cannot act on their own.

The mere thought of his bed is tantalizing, his eyes aching to be closed and stay that way, his joints stiff from the constant movement since even sitting now proves a temptation. When the sun has almost risen once again, he walks out of the flat without a destination, without a thought, letting his feet choose the way as he places them against the ground, one after another. The air is freezing and somehow soothing, made thick by emissions and the oxygen-poor breaths that leave a thousand people's lips in every second. It is so different from Asgard's sweet, warm, fragrant breeze that Loki's heart soars, swells. It takes a few minutes until he notices that he is shivering because of the cold, and he brings one hand up to his eyes, watching the hairs on his arms rise with fascination. Never before has he felt anything like it, one of the very few perks about his true heritage, but now even his Jotunn blood does not seem to be able to fend the cold off and Loki welcomes it, even shrugging off another layer of clothes to leave behind like a snake shedding its old skin. It is unpleasant, but wakes him up, allows him to focus a little better and whatever price he has to pay for this gift, it is worth it.

He ends up walking for several hours, until he has reached he outskirts of the town which wakes around him, even able to keep his thoughts away from Thor by focussing his new-found concentration on his surroundings. It works wonderfully, almost too easily, until a mother passes, holding her little son's hand. The boy is golden, shining like the sun itself and Loki wants to tear his gaze away from him but finds he cannot.

As if he is sensing the trickster's stare the child turns around, catching his eyes as his lips curl in an achingly familiar smile. Years ago, in a distant past, Thor had smiled at him like that, eyes shining with trust and it had been his undoing, each and every time.

He transports himself back to the apartment in barely hidden panic, his silver tongue stumbling over the runes and words as if it was the first time he used them. Apparently not all of the Norns hate him, for he makes it to the sofa before collapsing, suddenly utterly exhausted. Resting his head on his hands, he allows his eyes to slip close for a moment only to force them open again for behind them is Thor, waiting with the sweetest grin on his lips, one hand reaching out to pull Loki's younger self back to his feet. And somehow this little memory is enough to break him, a dry half-sob wrenching itself free from his chest only to be followed by another and yet another until he is gasping and aching all over, his shoulder's shaking with the attempt to calm himself. For is it not ridiculous how a child, a mere mortal boy can reduce the god of mischief to a trembling mess only held apart by the last few scraps of sanity he has been able to keep. It is, in fact it is so ridiculous that the next sound which rises in Loki's throat is not a sob but a chuckle, cruel and vile in sound and intent and yet better than the sounds before. And so he laughs, laughs until his sides hurt and the corners his mouth have forgotten how it feels to be turned downwards, because it is either this or crying.  
Something changes, because he is the god of chaos and therefore always changing and all of a sudden there is anger rising in his chest, white-hot and fierce and all-encompassing in its intensity. How can these disgusting, unworthy Midgardians evoke such a reaction in him? How can they dare to reduce him to this state and how can he allow them to?

It take minutes to collect himself again, but when he rises there is nothing broken left, all pieces and splinters being put together again, blind wrath burning in his eyes.

In the end, it proves very easy to destroy the town. It is neither elegant nor clever, all fireballs and lightning, but it works perfectly even if it takes longer than expected. Only once does his hand stop mid-motion, raised high in the air with flames sparkling all around it, ready to be released. The little blonde boy looks up at him with blue, tear-filled eyes and for one moment it is Thor looking back at him, pleading.

Loki lets the flames die down and just as relief fills the child's eyes, he summons lighting strong enough to burn everything within the radius of half a kilometre. It seems only fitting that the child reminding him so strongly of the Thor should be struck down by the thunderer's own weapon.

The boy cries out and dies, just like his mother, just like the rest of his town does before the day is over, their screams ringing sweet in Loki's ear. Sweet and yet not enough to satisfy, never enough. When it is done, no mortal, nothing left alive, the god of chaos steps away, wiping the blood of some woman, man, child into his cloak, staining dark green with red. It is disgusting how the liquid sticks to his fingers, to his skin, staying behind in the beds of his nails. He glances down at it almost in wonder, for even if he isn't sure of a lot anymore, he does know that he should feel something, anything really, but there is nothing. No sense of accomplishment, no relief and definitely not a sign of remorse.

One last glance is all he spares the remains of the small town which he has lived in for the last half a year before turning his back, never to look back

Unfortunately destroying the city also meant destroying his own apartment, his books, clothes and maps, but Loki can't bring himself to care about it. Sentiment, that was all they were, trinkets and reminders of a life long left behind. The content of most books is secured safely in his memory and garments are not of importance when he can just wave his hand to create himself a new set. And still there is one small, short pang of loss, because amidst all the worthless junk there was one small object which he cannot help but miss. Nothing more than a trinket, a piece of stone in which clumsy, still child-like hands had once carved the rune for thunder, the same hands which had held it dear or years and years before throwing it away in disgust, nothing more than a memento of a time which had not been deemed worthy. Loki had picked it up back then, with the intention of giving it back to these same hands, but the moment had never been the right one until the trickster had grown too attached to it to want to part from it again.

Magic pulses through his fingers, swirling out of the tips to create a replica, exact up to the small scratches where young fingers did not know how to place the knife. And yet it only takes one look before Loki throws the stone away, the velocity enough to make it burst into splinters as it touches the ground. For now it is truly worthless, the only thing which had once made it precious the imagined lingering of Thor's touch on the smooth surface.

Even if he doesn't sleep anymore, he still needs a place to stay and so Loki leaves the ruins of the town behind him, vanishing into a mist of gold sparks before rematerializing in an apartment half a world away. The continent he lands on does not matter to him, all of Midgard looking the same anyway, dull and without any appeal whatsoever. What does matter, though, is the flat itself and the first one is not even worth considering, too small, too cramped to fit a god's needs.  
He kills the woman living there though, not wanting to leave loose ends behind, but the way she stares up at him in shock and panic does not even start to spark joy in his heart. The next four apartments are all either too small or too large now that his possessions have been destroyed, the sixth just plain awful with a view of what was more or less a giant trash dump spread out to form a village. Loki kills all of the inhabitants without zeal or dedication, each spell only performed because it is necessary and not because he feels like it.

It's only the seventh flat which finally fits, not perfectly, not even close to it, but the adrenaline of the fight is wearing off and Loki is tired, too tired to go looking for something he may never find. The apartment is the property of a young couple and the trickster kills them too while they are still in bed, the woman clinging to her lover's corpse, blood staining her hands, cheeks as he whips out a spell which rips her throat out, leaving her half –draped over the man.  
A few splatters of blood reach him and as Loki stares down on the red on his hands, he wonders if he would have done the same in the woman's position: Clung to Thor's warm body as he awaited his impending doom.

When he leaves the bedroom, he seals the door behind him, not allowing anything to go either in or out of the room. Maybe, he thinks, he has even done the lovers a service for this death at least was a quick one, compared to letting then grow old together, one of them inevitably dying before the other, ripping them apart. And Loki knows only too well how much that hurts.

Any other day, Loki would have started changing things around the flat, tinting the walls white or green instead of the ghastly yellow covering them, removing all the small trinkets and pictures from walls and shelves, but now he just sinks down onto the sofa, suddenly more than just tired, completely boneless. For a moment, he just sits there, staring off into the distance and thinks. The Avengers and Thor (for Thor is not an Avenger in his mind; the Avengers are his mortal enemies and the thunderer is far much more than just that) must have discovered the destruction of the town by now and Loki can almost see their faces in front of him, filled with horror and disgust. He smiles and then imagines the same look on his brother's face. The smile stays, but only because it's either that or breaking into tears and the god of mischief and lies does not cry.  
It happens without him noticing, Thor's scowl twisting into a smile, the coldness of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s headquarters fading to give way to the throne room of Asgard's palace and Loki jerks awake, his chest aching with every ragged breath. Sleep, he thinks horrified, he has been sleeping. After all these days, he can't control it anymore.  
Several seconds pass until he is able to calm down, minutes until the blasted, sunny grin disappears and almost half an hour before he is able to think straight again. But by then he at least knows what to do.

It's so easy, really, because this is what he has prepared himself for what feels like an eternity ago. He looks down at his hands, still speckled with red, not only the blood of that one woman but of all of them, her lover, the small boy with his familiar smile, the whole town and he wipes his finger across the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of red all over it. It's cool because his Jotun skin does not give off enough warmth, cool and sticky, but it is enough. A moment passes in which Loki panics because the memories don't come to him as easily anymore, but in the end, they follow his command and reveal which symbols he needs.

The runes should be easy to paint considering Loki's centuries of practice, but his fingers are shaking and the blood is so unlike the fine ink he used to write with, so the lines and swirls on his forehead look slightly crumpled, crooked as he finally sinks back against the cushions. And yet, when he allows his eyes to close, the runes force them open again instantly. An exhausted smile passes over his face and once again, his gaze wanders back to the bedroom door as he imagines the blood seeping through under the door, staining everything red. Drowning everything in blood, just like he is famed to do. The thought is strangely excited and for a second he catches himself wishing for the blood to come and drown him too.

A few moments or minutes or hours pass until he manages to tear his gaze away, returning it to his hands which still bear the only trace of what lies behind that door. The blood has started to dry, changing its bright red for a darker hue of red, one which almost looks like the cape Thor is so fond of. His thoughts linger on the fact for a bit before he realizes what it is what he is thinking about, a half-strangled cry escaping from his chapped lips. Because Thor doesn't matter anymore, isn't allowed to matter, not after all Loki has done to forget him. And yet he doesn't take his eyes off his hands, not sure if because he can't or because he does not want to. They are speckled with blood and underneath all the red, the skin starts to turn blue. Maybe it's just a trick of the light or one of his tired mind, but it doesn't matter, not when the tips of his fingers are starting to change. His fingernails slowly grow darker, longer and Loki just knows that if he doesn't act, they will change into something resembling claws and the thought terrifies him. Until then, it has always been him controlling his appearance, him shifting into his Jotun form when he felt the need to do so, but never that his wretched, natural looks just took over. Maybe, he realizes, maybe this means that he slowly loses his abilities and maybe, it is only a matter of days, of hours until he will be forever stuck in a blue-skinned, red-eyed body he hates even more than he hates Thor.

It's that thought which lets all other vanish, every little spark of rationality disappear from his mind. Nothing counts except to prevent this from happening and so Loki does the first thing he can think of: Magic flows from his fingers, green sparks turning into golden flames mid-air and dance over his hands, burning every trace of blue from his skin as it starts to blister, break and turn to an angry, bleeding red.

And it hurts. It hurts so much that Loki can't but cry out, the sound strangled and broken, half a sob, but he doesn't stop, doesn't dare to. With his gaze is fixed on his hands, he starts laughing without joy, without happiness, his own voice scaring him as the flames slowly die down, leaving him panting in relief and agony at the same time. A hundred spells flit through Loki's mind, some to relief the pain, others to close the wounds, to heal the skin in the matter of seconds, but he doesn't make use of any of it. Never before have his hands looked less like a Frost Giant's and the ache throbbing through them causes enough adrenaline to course through him that it feels as if he will be able to stay awake for another lifetime without ever getting tired. He closes his eyes and they fly open again within a second and for once, Loki is satisfied.

And really, the next eight or so hours pass in a rush as he hurries through the apartment, letting everything not suitable to his tastes vanish, until the flat is almost empty. The only thing left untouched is that one door and the bedroom behind it, although his gaze lingers on it a few times, contemplating. In the end, he considers it his parting gift to the former owners of his new home, a place where they can rest together for all eternity. It is a suitable present, he thinks, for it is the exact opposite of what they have granted him with their passing: Somewhere where he can spend the time until Ragnarök comes alone and without Thor in his life, his mind, his dreams.

The runes start to fade without Loki noticing, the pain still strong enough to keep his attention from anything else, the adrenaline making it easy to keep his eyes open. It's only when he finally sits down to regain his strength to recreate everything he has just destroyed in a way which pleases him better that every time he blinks, his eyes stay close for a little longer. And still, it does not catch his attention, his mind too blurred to focus on more than one thing at the same time. But then his lids close for long enough that the world around him stays dark for a second or two before he jerks wide awake again. It hasn't been long enough for any memory to raise from his subconscious, but he can feel them lurking, waiting for their opportunity to haunt him again. Uncaring that his knees are weak and his limbs hurt with every step, he walks into the bathroom, to the mirror, one he hasn't smashed yet and looks.

His eyes are sunken in, framed with dark rings, the green of the irises dull and faded. While his skin has always been pale, it now looks bloodless, his lips chapped and his dark hair in disarray. But none of this matters, because the runes on his forehead are faded and smudged and the sight is more terrifying than he would have thought. With shaking fingers, he rummages through the small drawer he has allowed to stay, searching for anything he can retrace them with.

In the back of his mind, he knows he should feel at least ridiculous as he uses the small stick of eyeliner the woman must have forgotten in the back of her drawer to paint runes older than himself onto his skin. Every movement hurts and he hisses as he has to grip the stick harder, the pressure against his charred skin almost unbearable. But he manages and it's worth it for as he puts the eyeliner back and closes his eyes, they fly open again without a second's delay.

This time, the symbols don't even last four hours, the black paint fading so much quicker than blood as Loki discovers with annoyance. In the two next day he goes through normal pens, lipstick, ash crushed and mixed with water and the last half-dried rests of ink he finds in one of the desks but nothing lasts long enough. Nothing lasts _forever_.

His eyes are dry and stinging worse with every time he opens them again and he is tired, _so tired_ that it gets harder to even remember the runes he needs to use with every minutes which passes. By now, it is hard to think clearly, hard to concentrate, but when the idea pops up in his head, it sounds insane even to himself, but no matter how hard he tries to find an alternative, there is none. None which will allow him to stay awake and going to sleep still is not an option.

And so he walks back into the bathroom, once more rummaging through it with shaking fingers and an uncertain mind, throwing aside half-empty pots of eye shadow and dried mascara, scraps of paper and torn hair ties until he feels cold metal against his fingertips. Gingerly, he pulls out the razor blade and tries to set it down on the edge of the sink without hurting himself, but he is too shaken for his movements to be steady enough. When he pulls his hands away, the burnt skin is slick with blood.  
The cut itself is not deep, the blade not sharp enough to do real damage and for one moment, Loki is not sure if that is a good thing or not. And yet, it does not matter for it is all he has.

His mind is reeling as he fixes his attention to his reflection in the mirror once more. What he wants to do is dangerous, is madness, is painful and Loki brings the blade to his neck, considering. One cut, that is all it would take for he is schooled in these things, knowing where and how deep he would have to press the razor to send enough blood gushing from the wound to kill him within a minute. But a hundred or a thousand years ago someone called death the brother of sleep and Loki can see why enough to still his hand. Death is eternal and he is not going to take that risk.  
And apart from that, it is not as if Loki wanted to die. He wants to forget and never remember, he wants the dreams to stop as he wants to stop hating and loving, but he wants to live. This is the only way of surviving, he thinks as he brings the blade to his forehead, letting it rest there for a moment with its tip digging into pale skin. He still can't bear the thought of dreaming again.

The first cut is the worst, his fingers shaking as they guide the blade, leaving a bright red line behind, blood running down his forehead dripping into his eyes, staining his lips until copper and salt is the only thing he can still taste. Three more cuts and it is done, the blade dropping into the sink unheeded as Loki lets out a sigh of relief, blinking away the tears in his eyes. His whole face is lined with red, pained, tired eyes staring back at him as he brings an aching finger up to trace the symbol now carved into his forehead. It lacks precision and elegance and it throbs with every beat of his heart, but it is done well enough to serve its purpose, his eyes never staying closed longer than a moment or two.  
But no matter how well the rune is working, he can't help but wish it away again, and himself back into the past when his eyes still held life and his face was still unmarred and handsome. When someone would have gasped in horror upon seeing him like this. Now, the nicest thing he can imagine Odin or Frigga or even Thor doing is calling him insane and Loki wonders if he would even subject to that word anymore.  
His fingers are still shaking as he bows down to wash his face, the blood tinting the water red, then pink. There is so much of it, so much blood that Loki wonders how he is still standing and how a few cuts can cause this. But when he looks up again there is one short, tiny moment in which the wound is clean and it is enough for him to see the bone shining through. He can't move, can't look away even as the blood rushes in again, pouring down his face and hiding the severity of the cut from his widened eyes. It flows down his cheeks and drips from his chin, warm, sticky and metallic and all of a sudden, Loki doubles over, retches the few contents of his stomach up again. The bile burns in his throat, making him shake in disgust as he braces himself on the edges of the sink with damaged hands, trying so hard to ignore how his knees are threatening to give out. He is a god after all and gods do not feel the effects of exhaustion. A voice in his head whispers that maybe it has just been too long since he has last tasted Idunn's apples, but he ignores that, too.

When he finally exits the bathroom, the bleeding still hasn't stopped and so Loki presses a bunch of crumpled tissues against the wound, which is still too little to soak up all of the blood and yet better than nothing. He leaves a trail of dark red drops on his way to the living room, but instead of making them disappear with an annoyed flick of his wrist he watches them dry and wonders if that is what is happening to the couple he left dead in the bedroom.  
It is then that it happens for the first time, a sudden movement and when Loki whips around, there is a moment where he sees a red cape and tanned skin, a pair of full lips curled in a fond smile and bright, blue eyes looking back at him. But the moment vanishes and the only thing left in the room is a lone sofa, a table, a couple of shelves and Loki in the middle of it, staring and shaking with blood dripping from his soaked tissues, his burnt hands. Of course, it was nothing but his twisted, tired mind playing tricks on him, it can't have been, but the knowledge helps next to nothing, just like it never helped against the way his dreams made him feel.

How the rest of the day passes he doesn't know, the exhaustion blurring and drowning everything else out. Whatever he sees, hears, feels seems to be muffled by it, even time passing slower than it once has and it leaves him completely numb, as if nothing is able to reach him anymore. And maybe that is a good thing, Loki thinks, maybe it is the next stage of the clarity he felt after he had managed to avoid his dreams for the first two days, because as long as Thor can't reach him either, he'll gladly sacrifice the feeling the blanket underneath him or the smell of charred wood and the faint metallic odour magic brings with it.

The thought lasts until later that evening when the thunder comes. It shakes him completely awake and suddenly all the things he said about sensations being muffled is forgotten since this is all too clear. He is not used to it anymore either, his last flat had purposely been located in a country where it barely rained, only snowed and where the possibility of a thunderstorm was low enough to spend a few years in peace at least. But here? Wherever_ here_even is, it does not seem to be the same country, maybe not even the same continent. For one moment, Loki considers teleporting but in his state he is not even sure if his spell would carry him past the outskirts of the city, let alone another part of the world.

When he had still been a boy, thunder had been the most soothing sound in the world, reminding him of his brother and that no matter what monsters would come, there would be someone to protect him.. And back then, storms had meant something else, it meant that Thor would lift his blankets so Loki could crawl beneath them and listen to the older boy speaking of what he would do as soon as he was the god of thunder, of how many Frost Giants he would slay and of what great deeds he would be remembered for. Now the only Frost Giant which he knows Thor wants to slay is Loki himself and the rumbling of thunder doesn't hold more than a threat and the promise that nothing is going to get better with time.  
He hates thunderstorms and yet he gets up and walks over to the window, climbing onto the sill with weak knees and hands scrambling or purchase. There has never been a time where he was strong, but now it is near impossible to pull the weight of his own body up and it is worrying or even beyond that already. The world outside is grey, the other houses, the street and the sky, even the raindrops falling down look grey to Loki when he finally regains his balance, resting his head against the glass. It's cold and he wonders if being of Jotun heritage shouldn't make him immune to such sensations. Mere minutes pass before the streets have cleared out completely, leaving Loki to stare out on wet pavement and the swaying of a tree's feeble branches. Still, he doesn't look away, not for a second.  
Hours pass and darkness falls over the town while Loki still jerks upright with every burst of thunder, his eyes fixed onto the street beneath, painfully dry and tired and yet not allowed to slip shut. His hands burn as if the flames were still licking at the singed skin and without thinking, Loki presses the tips of his fingers against the cold glass, the pressure intensifying the pain further.  
Nothing changes except for the sound of the raindrops against the window, but then there is the sound of thunder again and suddenly there is someone beside him, only inches away. It's too dark to see who it is, but there is the clank of metal and the rustle of cloth and the sound of breathing and Loki's heart almost stops because he knows who it is. He wants to turn away and run and he wants to turn around and fling himself into Thor's arms, not caring what the other will do to him, but he does neither, just stays and keeps his gaze on the wet street, as if maybe, not seeing the thunderer would make him go away. But it wouldn't be a thunderstorm without lightning and the next one is bright enough to light up the entire room and if Loki needed any confirmation, he would find it in Thor's reflexion in the glass. The other is looking at him; he can tell that much, for Thor's head is turned in his direction. The flash of light vanishes too quickly for Loki to tell which expression the thunderer's familiar features are wearing, but at least Thor hasn't tried to attack him yet, something Loki is grateful for. Because no matter how much it pains him to admit it, right now he would be no match for the god of thunder.  
Time passes but nothing happens and slowly, very slowly, it is driving the trickster mad with nervousness. Thor could end him in a second, they both know this and yet he does not act and while Loki desperately wants to ask for the reason, he is too scared of the answer he might get to do so. They watch the sun rise side by side, each passing second both torture and blessing, and he can't help but remember how, when they still were brothers, they would sometimes stay up the whole night, risking Frigga's wrath in the mornings when they sat yawning at the kitchen table, tired but giddy because of their shared secret. He wonders if Thor thinks about these things too as the sky turns light and lighter under their gazes, and if, if his memories are fond or cruel ones.  
This time, he actually works up the courage to ask, telling himself that if the other wanted to kill him, he could have done so a hundred, a thousand times already before turning around. For a moment, he sees a blur of red and gold, but when his eyes finally focus (which takes longer and longer every time, just like each thought seems to take ages to form by now) there is only the empty window sill to greet them. He should be relieved, Loki knows that, but it does not stop his heart from shattering into pieces as he looks away again, his head falling back against the wall. When his eyes close to prevent that one treacherous tear from falling, they fly open a second later.

How much time passes until Loki is able to form a proper thought again, he doesn't know for by now it is almost impossibly hard to concentrate on anything else than the overwhelming exhaustion he is feeling. That and the pain.  
It's everywhere, just like his tiredness, making his eyes burn as if someone has poured sand and salt water into them, his lips chapped and bleeding, his tongue thick and swollen. His head is throbbing without pause and his back is feeling as if his spine is threatening to break through his flesh and skin every second, his every joint aching.  
He does not know where he is, doesn't even know if he cares about such fickle things anymore, the only thing left in his mind the certainty that he needs to sleep. Dreams be damned, nightmares and visions and memories, even those which leave him shaken and weak, he'd take them all if it means at least half an hour of blessed sleep. By now, he is not even able to perform the simplest spells, the magic still flowing through his veins and sparking from the tips of his fingers, but only to die there, his concentration too lacking to bind it into a spell. And no matter how often he closes his eyes, sinking into blissful silence, they are forced open after a mere moment. He wants to cry, but no tears come, as if his body is too dried out to produce any tears anymore... and yet the thought of food or drink makes Loki feel sick. He needs to sleep, needs to sleep, needs to sleep, even if it costs him another litre of blood and whatever skin is left on his forehead.

How he manages to get down from the sill without collapsing he doesn't know, every step a challenge with the way his body is swaying, but somehow he makes it to the sofa, into the hall. His hand is brushing over the walls in means of support, leaving a trail of red where the burnt skin breaks open. It's a pointless gesture for they would be no good scrambling for purchase now, his every motion too slow to prevent a fall. And they are, uselessly flailing through the air when his foot gets caught on the hem of the one, single carpet Loki has not destroyed, causing him to stumble and fall, his head crashing painfully against the wall. It hurts and leaves him disorientated for a second, and when he looks around, trying to find something to grab onto in order to pull himself up again, his foot is twisted in the strangest angle. Only then the pain sets in, a sharp sting as if someone is driving a white-hot knife through his flesh, then a violent throbbing, which causes everything else to disappear for the matter of a few seconds. Of course he has broken bones before, no one raised in Asgard hasn't, but the lack of sleep makes him feel raw, unguarded.  
The worst thing, though, is neither the pain nor the humiliation that a carpet is enough to cause the god of mischief to fall; it's the knowledge that even if he should somehow manage to get up again, he won't make it to the bathroom, won't make it to the razor still abandoned in the sink like this. And without the razor, the rune carved into his forehead stays and prevents him from sleeping. There are still no tears coming but instead a dry sob rises in Loki's throat and he does not even try to supress it, nor the one which follows.  
How long it takes until he has calmed down, he doesn't know, but by then his throat is raw and if possible, he is even more exhausted than before. _A good cry makes the heart feel lighter_, Frigga used to say and back then, when he was still her son, there was a time when he believed her, even though crying always left him feeling even worse.  
One of his hands flies up to touch the cuts on his head, crusted with blood and he curses the rune, curses himself and his brain, but most of all curses Thor. For being so infuriatingly perfect, for making Loki fall for him in the first place, for haunting his dreams and for not being there to prevent this from happening. His fingers crook and a fingernail scratches over the wound, painful and causing it to break open again, a small bead of blood making its way down his forehead. It slides down the bridge of his nose, over his cheek like the tears might have if he had been able to cry them, but when it reaches his lips, they are curled upwards in the cruel imitation of a smile.  
Again, he brings his fingers to the cuts, burying his nails in the marred, torn flesh and pulling with whatever strength there is still left of him. He can feel his skin tearing; can feel the blood gushing from the reopened wounds as well as the new one. A sharp hiss escapes him because it hurts, just as much as carving the rune in the first place if not more, but he ignores it, repeating the motion over and over again, as if in some kind of trance. Blood is flowing freely down his face, getting into his eyes and making them burn even worse, seeping into his clothes but he does not stop, does not dare to until his whole forehead is on fire, a large, open wound throbbing with an ache he has never felt before, even managing to dull the pain in his ankle.  
It is only then that he allows his eyes to shut, his heart speeding up with suspense as the world around him in hidden away in darkness. And they stay closed, relief washing over him until he can't breathe anymore… only to be ripped away again when an invisible hand forces them open again. If he thought waking from his dreams bad, this is worse. Even if he could cry, he wouldn't because as he watches the world reappear around him, he's numb, every small spark of emotion drained and gone. This is what defeat must feel like, he thinks and stares at the wall in front of him without seeing it.

It's at least a day that passes, for Loki sees the dark fall and vanish again without ever moving. Sometimes, his eyes flicker to rest on another object for an hour or two, but everything beyond that is well beyond his powers by now. Whatever is left of his body and his mind is made of exhaustion and pain, both growing worse with every passing second and yet he can't even bring himself to try and relieve either of it. Faintly he wonders if this is what eternity is going to be like for him, his own, self-inflicted hell. His thoughts hardly settle on one thing anymore , too blurred and fuzzy to be focussed, but if they do by accident, it's to bring back another memory as if to taunt him. It's not only his childhood anymore, or imagined nights spent in Thor's arms, but just as often as not it's pieces of bits of the battles he has fought against his former brother and his group of mortals. They fill him with the same strange mixture of despair, disgust and longing as every other vision and Loki wonders if this is him truly starting to despise Thor.

At first, it's nothing more than the rustle of heavy cloth, the dull clinking of metal against metal and although he hears, he doesn't notice, his mind swept away to a cold day spent in Vanaheim at least a thousand years ago. But then, the sounds are joined by the distant smell of lightning and thunder, sharp and just as dangerous as soothing and the combination is enough to force Loki back into the reality he does not ever want to see again, whipping his head around with a force he did not know he still possessed. It's the first motion in what feels like a millennia and it hurts, the wound on his forehead opening once again, fresh, red blood flowing down to cover the dried traces he still has not removed.  
Somehow, the sight of Thor standing there is not what surprises him, it is the fact that the other does not appear to have changed at all. Blue eyes filled with either love or pity or disgust (Loki is not sure if he can distinguish between them anymore, every emotion flowing together in his tired brain) are looking down on him, the thunderer's lips not betraying his thoughts or feelings, but his hair is still golden and in disarray, just like Loki has last seen it.  
He wants to speak, wants to tell Thor to go away and at least leave him alone in his hell, when he has refused to do so in life, but no words comes out. Maybe, he thinks, it's better this way, because another part of him wants to beg the other to hold him, to take him away from what he has done to the world and heal what he has done to himself.  
Like he stays silent, so does Thor, just watching him before crouching down, the leather and metal of his armour moving against each other, and Loki holds his breath and hopes. What it is he hopes for he can't decide, if it's for an embrace, a kiss or the mercy of a clean cut through his neck, and really, he would take any option or all of them at once. What he gets is neither, only a shared silence, a breath, before Thor brings a large, rough hand to his face, not even flinching at the blood staining his own golden skin as he cups Loki's cheek, using his touch to tilt the trickster's head back. In the back of his mind, he is aware that Thor is trying to force him to look at the other, but it is hardly necessary; Loki wouldn't be able to look away if he wanted to.  
'What have you done?', his not-brother whispers and even his voice is exactly the same, deep and rumbling. Like thunder, he thinks and smiles.  
There is no answer he could give, even if he wanted to and so he stays silent, green eyes still locked with blue ones. If Thor wanted to kill him, now would be perfect moment.  
The other is searching for an answer in his face and Loki does not know why, for everything which ever needed to be said between the two of them has been said a lifetime ago. But still, Thor's gaze does not falter and he returns it without hesitation. After all, there is nothing left for him to fear. Another pause and then the thunderer sighs and between blurred scraps of memories, Loki thinks that this has to be the softest, saddest sound he has ever heard coming from him.  
A second hand comes up and for a moment he expects a hit or a stab or a cut but instead Thor traces the tip of his finger over the torn, bloody flesh which used to be his forehead, follows the dark red lines his blood has left behind down his cheek until it rests against the trickster's lips, the touch so soft it is hard to feel it at all. And even harder, Loki notices, not to lean into it, to use the last bits of strength he has still left in that broken body of his to press back against the finger. It's not a kiss and he isn't sure if he wants it to be.  
Thor's eyes are sad or angry or maybe both as the continue to watch him, but when Loki mutters _I despise you _against the calloused pad of his finger in something which is still not quite a kiss but still not far from it and in that moment, his words are almost the truth. He replies _yes_, so quietly that the answer is more a breath than a word and so brokenly that it tears another piece from Loki's heart, turning the words he has just said into the most disgusting lie he ever uttered. The finger moves again, brushing over his lips in a way which leaves Loki unsure if it is meant to wipe the blood away or to spread it further, but it does not matter because nothing seems to matter when Thor's eyes soften, growing so sad that it is almost unbearable to continue looking at them, but impossible to tear his gaze away.  
'Sleep', Thor breathes and Loki would laugh if he could. Can't he see that sleeping is one thing which is still impossible?  
'I can't', he answers after a moment, each word bitter and painful in his throat, on his tongue, on his lips. The thunderer pulls his finger away, the small patch of skin feeling impossibly cold all of a sudden and Loki wishes the touch back again. It doesn't return, instead Thor smiles.  
Never in his life would the trickster have thought that a smile could break his heart, but this one does. It's soft and tender, sad and broken, hopeful and yet defeated, but most of all, it is full of love. Neither the affection of a brother, nor the fondness of a friend, not even the devotion of a lover, but something which surpasses all of them and yet holds all of them inside, complete and unchangeable.  
If Thor wanted to kill him,_ this_ would be the perfect moment.  
'Sleep', Thor repeats with the smile still on his lips and Loki's hear still breaking, but all of a sudden he understands. The perfect moment, he thinks and somehow it fits. He nods mutely, a jerky, small motion, but Thor understands, for he leans in once more, wrapping strong arms around Loki's broken body, pulling him against a broad chest. It's warm, secure and the trickster can feel the tension leaving his body, leaving him boneless and pliant in Thor's arms. The pain doesn't fade but once the thunderer's brush is washing over his cheek, it suddenly feels so much less important, more of a distant memory than a real ache.  
'Thor, I…', he begins, his lips brushing over the other's skin where the armour ends, but he never gets to finish the sentence. Maybe it's because he's too tired, maybe because every spoken word hurts, maybe because he doesn't even know what to say. _Hate you_, perhaps, or _want you_; _envy you_ would fit just as well as _blame you_ and _forgive you_ would be just as good as _love you_. But even without him picking one, Thor nods as if he knows them all and accepts. 'Sleep', he says again and Loki can feel the brush of lips against his cheek. It's soft and gentle and if he still had a heart left, it would break.  
'Yes', he answers under his breath, feeling the word washing over the other's skin.  
The arms around him tighten and he leans into the embrace as if it could swallow him up, make him disappear. There is the faint sound of a heart beating in his ear, growing weaker and weaker by the second, like the wings of a dying bird fluttering for the last time.  
With Thor's armour scratching over his blood-stained cheek, Loki thinks that he has never heard anything so soothing before and he closes his eyes. Thor's arms are wrapped firm around him, holding him so close he can feel the thunderer breathing and even when darkness closes around him, he can tell that Thor is wearing that same smile which shattered his heart before. In the darkness of this one, blissful moment, Loki can hear the weak beating of the heart stopping and when his eyes inevitably fly open once again,, they are glazed over and sightless, the green irises still in stark contrast to the drying blood covering his face. But on his lips, there's a smile, because it's been ten days and he still hasn't slept a second.


End file.
